Homecoming by Susie Steiner

it.’
    ‘We’ll find a way. Beg, borrow an’ steal. Come on, can we tell your mother now? It’s been murder keeping it from her.’ They turn to begin the walk back to the farmhouse, then Joe stops. ‘Let’s keep quiet about the tractor though,’ he says, and he laughs out loud. ‘No need to knock her out, eh.’ And Max laughs.
    ‘After lambing, too,’ Joe says as they walk towards the farmhouse, ‘well, that’s perfect timing. Perfect.’
    *
    Next day, Ann sits on the chair with the wooden arms, her handbag on her knee. Beside her on the floor is a plastic bag, slipping with loose paperwork. Before her is Barry Jordan’s desk, behind it his empty chair and beyond that a mushroom-coloured blind, its slats hanging at broken angles. She leans down and gathers the handles of the plastic bag, tries to marshal it upright but it slides down again onto the floor.
    ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she says, putting a hand up comically as Barry Jordan enters the room. ‘Book that Caribbean cruise Ann! You deserve it.’
    ‘Not quite,’ says Barry, as he edges behind his desk. ‘I need to go through this change in the subsidies with you. You’re aware, I assume . . .’ He pauses while he rifles through some papers on his desk. ‘Ah yes, here we are. You’re aware that the single farm payment comes into force this year.’
    He hands her a sheet of paper. She looks down at it: The Single Farm Payment Explained . The rest is a blur.
    ‘It’s not going to do you any favours,’ says Barry.
    ‘We still get a payment though – we’ve got plenty of hectares, ha’n’t we?’
    ‘You have, but you’ll not do as well as under the headage payments. Used to be you could farm the brown envelope – keep more sheep and you got more money. But now, with a per hectare payment you’ll be down by . . . I’ve got the figures somewhere. Hilary’s got them – she’ll give you a breakdown to take away. Trouble is, moorland gets the lowest rate there is, and eighty acres of yours is rough grazing, is it not?’
    She gazes at the sheet of paper without reading it. ‘Someone up there doesn’t like farmers. That’s how it feels.’
    ‘I can get you a couple more environmental subsidies – stewardships and such like, but even so,’ says Barry.
    ‘Even so what?’
    ‘The best you can hope for is to break even. And you’ll be lucky to do that.’
    ‘Can we keep going till lambing?’ asks Ann.
    ‘You can keep going as long as you like. I’m just giving you the full picture. You’re not the first I’ve had to have this conversation with and you won’t be the last. These are very tough times indeed. I suggest you look at getting jobs off the farm. I know a chap over in Farndale, runs the fire station on the side.’
    She thinks to mention that they’re soon to be in their sixties, that they’re dog-tired, but she worries it would sound like whingeing.
    ‘I know it’s hard,’ says Barry. ‘I’ve seen that many farmers go under, even take their own lives.’
    ‘Jesus Barry, I don’t think we’ve come to that.’ She pauses. ‘Our assets, if we sold – what would it get us?’
    ‘You’ve five hundred Swaledales is it?’
    She nods.
    ‘You might be best off hanging on to them at the minute – hope prices recover. Housing market is mad. Goes up every month.’
    He clasps his hands together on the desk, smiles at her – a pitying sort of smile.
    ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Well, I’m sure things’ll pick up. Where would we be if farmers gave up every time the going got tough?’
    ‘Where indeed?’ says Barry, standing and flattening his tie with one hand to prevent it dipping in his coffee as he leans over the desk to shake her hand. ‘I’ll help in any way I can, Ann. As you know, my services are paid for by the NFU and that arrangement will continue for as long as you need it.’
    ‘Thank you,’ says Ann, rising, realising that she is being ushered out. She turns in the narrow space between